The Wormlips Scrapbook

Today out in my yard I saw a scarlet cardinal sunbathing atop a mass of golden forsythia near a swath of new, emerald grass. It would have been an even more interesting sight had the bird been reclining on its feathery back, wearing shades and sipping a Mai Tai. But this is the Northeast, where birds are traditional.

I cut class tonight for the first time. It was only Spanish, which isn’t for credit. Instead I wrote a report and filed an extension for my taxes and made a to-do list of things I won’t ever get done.

Speaking of which, last week we were submerged in the passive voice — or have you already been told that? The class could have been made more fun had we been exposed to the realm of creative ideas rather than subjected solely to linguistic theory. What further can be said?

Today an e-mail was received by me, sent by my elder daughter. Mothering Magazine is quoted:

Your baby is now beginning to grow his very first hairs. Around this time the baby’s eyes close and won’t open again until the 7th month. Nail beds are beginning to become visible at the ends of the baby’s fingers. The baby’s arms are now long enough that she can grasp one hand in the other.

Continuing the march toward normal proportions, baby’s legs now out-measure his arms. And, finally, all four limbs have functional joints. Your fetus is squirming and wiggling like crazy down in the womb, though you probably can’t feel the movements just yet.

She’s about the size of an orange this week, her ears have migrated to the sides of her head, and her eyes are moving to the front of her face.

Whew, that was lucky; I’m sure glad my ears found their way to the sides, and that my eyes wiggled over toward the middle. Otherwise, it would have been “There goes old Flounder-Face Allison” for me.

I have two interviews set up for Friday — I’m doing the interviewing; sadly, no job interviews yet — that are part of the independent study project I made up for myself. One interview is with a professor at The New School in NYC, a guy who has been building their online community. The other is at a university in Maryland, where digital storytelling is a component of their ESL program. My plan is to explore the intersection of my past lives: radio/first-person narrative/digital storytelling, along with online technology and community, along with English-teaching. It’s quite confusing to puzzle together, but one day I had a sudden, clear and simple picture in my brain of what I want to do. Wanna see?

The other night, going through paperwork in an abortive attempt to make progress in tax preparation, I encountered a letter from Dad. He wrote it on July 4, 2003.

Dear Ginna Girl:

It seems that, in all probability, the parentoids may not be greeting you at the airport as planned due to a last minute appointment with Dr. Smith who will determine why your father’s voice croaks so squeakily. So, before you alter your plans and head back to LaLa land, let me hasten to suggest a reasonable solution. We have a dilapidated 1980 brown Jeep Wagoneer, with which, I believe, you have some familiarity. On the assumption that Brownie’s battery still has energy remaining after sitting in the yard these past months, then we shall deposit said Brownie in the airport parking lot with the keys cleverly hidden on the floor boards below the steering wheel. When you try to start this elderly conveyance, be sure that you pump the gas pedal five or six times before cranking the engine each time. After employing this technique, you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that there’s a good 50 per cent chance of success.

Should Brownie not be willing to meet you two, then try looking for a blue 1972 Jeep Wagoneer with a big dent on the driver’s side and a winch in front. It too may be a bit battery-deficient. Failing all of the above, pray do call a taxi, for which all charges will be cheerfully refunded by your parents.

Won’t it be fun visiting Grandmother’s and Grandfather’s house down on the farm?

Much affection goes forth with this bulletin.

In fact, Molly and I were there to greet them at the house down on the beautiful farm. And the doctor had told them the reason for Dad’s croaky voice: Lou Gehrig’s disease.

I’ll bet you I’ve told you this story a thousand times. But man, you wouldn’t believe how stoic Mom and Dad were. Or how stoic Molly and I were, for that matter. My family doesn’t wail — not in front of others, anyhow. The four of us were in shock.

The day before, my team and I had won second place in the North American Irish Dance Championships in Nashville. I put my medal around Dad’s neck. It didn’t take me more than an hour or so to convince myself that this was no death sentence. We’d figure out how Dad could stay active at least a couple years more.

He knew better. He was dead in under four months. Can’t you tell just from reading that silly letter why I miss him so much, and why I fell apart when I discovered it?

He’d be so cranky at me for making all this fuss over him now. “For crying out loud. Just let me go, Baaa-Face. I’m dead, don’cha know!” He would be so proud of my doing this master’s program. Don’t you think, Maw?

I’m glad I’ve still got my Small to kick around — a cute little source of moral and other support while I bash my way through the academic thicket. She’s under strict orders not to die, and I know she’ll obey, under penalty of…

I asked Eleni the other day: if you have a boy, would you name it after my daddy? In vintage Eleni fashion, she replied, “We already haaaave a Peter in the family. And I’ve never liked the name frankly — in the interest of full disclosure.” She flunked Subtlety & Tact in the Ginna School of Delaware Manners. I love her anyway.

Nothing to say. Ho ho ho. Heh heh. Here are pictures. Mom’s tree, for example:

Here’s Mom wearing two presents: a spider from me, and meerkats from Molly:

Eleni got very emotional with gratitude when she received a generous check from her grandmother, and was consoled by said grandmother and her sister:

Ma’s fella, Ed, dropped by for a brief visit:

After I received abundant bounty from my daughters and my mother, we did regular relaxing things for the rest of the day. I hemmed some pants and knitted. Eleni slept. Molly played on the computer and talked on the phone. I called my friend M in Sac’to. As we tried to figure out the date for a possible visit, he reminded me that “thirty days hath September.” That was well and good, but we forgot what happens in December.

For the rest of the day I worried about as much as I could think to worry about, which is a lot. Now I’m going to get back to that.

Mom thinks I should do something different with my hair.

Happy array of winter holidays.

Yesterday we did some errands, and stopped by my Aunt Sandy’s house to drop off some presents. I hadn’t seen her for years. She doesn’t look any older, while I do.

Back at Maw’s house, Stella had fun in the snow.

Eleni tried to see what it was like to be a dog running in the snow. It’s harder than it looks.

For dinner last night Mom took us to the Greenville Country Club, longtime bastion of the best of blueblood. There, I spotted something that vastly entertained me: a sign that would not have existed there during my youth.

Ever since I was young, being in a place like that makes me misbehave. I can’t help myself.

Eleni and I went into hysterics over something stupid.

Meanwhile, Molly and Mom had a staring contest — the kind to see who would laugh first.

Mom has an almost undefeatable, green-eyed glare that can either paralyze its victims with fear (if you’re one of her children) or disable them with laughter (if you’re not). But this time Molly won, with this move:

Shortly before 10 am today, I snuck outside into the sub-freezing air and cautiously climbed the icy road to the top of the hill in hopes of decent cell reception. I had a telephone appointment scheduled with my psychiatrist, and I wanted privacy. Though the bars on my phone promised clarity, the connection was terrible. The doctor’s voice kept vanishing. “Can you hear me?” I asked. “Or am I cracking up?”

We just got back from Greenville where, while Mom was picking up shrimp at the grocery store, I played a game with my girls as we sat in the car waiting. I called it “Spot the WASP” or “Spot the Preppie.” They’re pretty bad at it. I can recognize old money a mile away, and tried to share my knowledge. “Okay, now watch this person coming toward us. Look carefully. You can see she’s dripping with aristocracy.” It was Mom.

On our way home, we saw Santa stopped at a red light, his red, round belly (like a bowlful of jelly) practically busting the seams of his grey Subaru, his white beard flowing out its windows.